Irish Soda Bread Murder

by Carlene O'Connor, Peggy Ehrhart, Liz Ireland

Genres: Mystery Anthologies & Collections; Mystery; Amateur Sleuth

Synopsis

It’s almost time for the delicious warmth of Irish soda bread, but be careful where you bite–some of these recipes call for murder in this delicious collection of cozy mystery novellas featuring the popular St. Paddy’s Day treat.

IRISH SODA BREAD MURDER by CARLENE O’CONNOR
There’s very little time left before her wedding, but nonetheless Tara Meehan is helping out at her Uncle Johnny’s salvage mill for the day. Aunt Rose set up a convention for local psychics, including a bake sale to raise money for charity, but now she’s sick and available only via an iPad Johnny is carrying. The event promises to deliver a real pot of gold until Rose’s biggest rival shows up. Before Tara can utter a simple “top o’ the morning” to the man, he drops dead—with Johnny’s soda bread in his hands. It’s up to Tara to identify the deadly baker before another victim ends up chasing the rainbow straight into a grave . . .

AN IRISH RECIPE FOR MURDER by PEGGY EHRHART
To celebrate St. Patrick’s Day this year, the Arborville, New Jersey, Advocate is sponsoring a soda bread–baking competition. Bettina Fraser is excited—her bake-off idea was the one to get the green light! But when a town councilman acting as a judge keels over after sampling an entry, the party atmosphere dies just as quickly. Now it’s up to Bettina and her Knit and Nibble knitting club bestie, Pamela Paterson, to find the killer responsible for the murderous morsel.
 
MRS. CLAUS AND THE SINISTER SODA BREAD MAN by LIZ IRELAND
When April Claus arrives in Cloudberry Bay, Oregon, to check on her flooded inn, her biggest worry is to keep everyone from realizing her three companions—Jingles, Juniper, and Butterbean—are elves. But soon enough she has more serious worries—it looks like her hapless caretaker Ernie has been storing stolen goods at the inn! Then one of Ernie’s shady pals is found dead, and the murder weapon turns up in a decorative loaf of soda bread at April’s craft fair booth. It’s up to April to uncover the killer before she spends St. Patrick’s Day in the county jail!
 

Release date: December 24, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 352

Sample

Tara Meehan balanced her plate of Millionaire Shortbread as she descended from her loft down to her Uncle Johnny’s salvage mill, Irish Revivals. Today was the annual psychic fair slash bake sale, and she could hear the excited voices of their talent echoing in the massive space below. One voice rose above the others, and she recognized it immediately: Ronan Stone, arguably the most sought-after psychic in Galway City.

“A photo is worth a thousand words, darling,” he belted out.

“I think you mean, picture,” another man said, topping off the comment with a nervous laugh.

“You’ll always know what I mean because I say it,” Ronan replied.

As Tara reached the bottom of the stairs, a woman draped in colorful scarves chased another woman clad in a black dress with sequins. “Why aren’t you referring clients to me anymore?” she whined.

“I’m doing me best,” the woman in black said. “But if you were as skilled as you say, you’d be able to answer that for yourself.” With that the woman in black disappeared into the first booth, marked SLOANE STARGAZER. The other woman must be Deirdre Palms, the palm reader, and sure enough she slipped into the second to last booth, the one set aside for Deirdre.

A petite woman standing near the colorful neon auras looked at the clock and gasped. “Less than an hour?” she said, slapping the top of her head with her hands. “Where are my spectacles? I can’t see without them!” She threw desperate glances at people around her, but no one stopped to help her look. “This is going to be a dumpster fire!”

“I have an entire box of spectacles you can rummage through,” Uncle Johnny said, emerging from the kitchen with a tray of tins. He jerked his full head of black hair toward the back of the mill. “In the storage room,” he said. “But be careful. We just had a new shipment, and the boxes are all piled in front of the windows. I wouldn’t go near them if I were you; you’re liable to get crushed in an avalanche.” He grinned. Tall and broad, the only resemblance her maternal uncle bore to Tara was the signature black hair and blue eyes. With him in his late sixties, Tara suspected he’d been secretly coloring his for some years now; it was the shade of shoe polish and often took on a blue tint. Tara was smart enough to keep her gob shut about it.

Ciara Moon squinted in the direction Johnny pointed, and then hurried toward the storage rooms. “Desperate times,” she muttered.

A tall and thin bald man holding a top hat adjusted the bow tie on his tuxedo and then hurried toward the bake sale table where Johnny was arranging his tins of Irish soda bread.

“Not so close, Paddy,” Johnny said. “You spread your germs, you buy them.” Paddy Pockets. The occult magician.

Tara finally reached the bottom of the stairs and brushed past a man dressed in a corduroy blazer and denim. “What a space,” he said, looking around the mill appreciatively. Tara recognized his voice from his podcast: Dave the Debunker. His podcast, Psychic Scums and the Skeptic, was growing in popularity. Ironically, he was married to Ronan Stone; they’d been together a decade now. According to Dave, Ronan was the only true psychic of the lot. That didn’t sit well with the rest of the psychics, and Tara knew his presence was going to stir the pot. The psychic fair was all about fun and charity, and Tara prayed he didn’t plan on sabotaging it. “It’s massive,” Dave said, opening his arms to the mill.

“Thank you, darling,” Ronan called out from behind his booth.

Dave threw his head back and laughed, then turned to Johnny. “If you ever want to sell—”

“Not on your life,” Johnny said.

Dave shrugged. “Just keep it in mind; you never know.”

Tara wanted to pipe in that she was first in line or second after Johnny’s wife, Rose, but wasn’t going to be crass. The old stone mill was absolutely a treasure. Johnny sourced architectural salvage items from all over Ireland, and the historic mill was a short walk or drive from Galway City. A small creek with a water wheel outside added to its charm, not to mention a partial view of Galway Bay. Inside, the three-thousand-square-foot shop boasted architectural salvage items, an old commercial kitchen, Johnny’s office, storage rooms, a back patio, and an upstairs loft where Tara currently lived.

As a former interior designer in New York City, Tara had always dreamed of owning this type of space. Industrial yet artistic, and filled with history and charm. She’d only met her Uncle Johnny less than five years ago when she’d come to Galway to spread her mother’s ashes. And once she fell in love with the bustling city, not to mention her eccentric uncle, she couldn’t bring herself to leave. She’d even opened her own shop in the city, Renewals, where she sold some of Johnny’s smaller treasures. And now she was engaged to be married to Johnny’s employee, Danny O’Donnell. There was no way Tara could ever leave the wondrous life she had fallen into. Who knew a trip inspired by grief could lead to her living her ideal life? Tara was grateful for it every single day. Her life wasn’t perfect, but it was imperfectly hers, and it wasn’t just the colorful people who fulfilled her. Tara was in love with Ireland itself, and so far, the relationship was rocky—if the rocky cliffs hanging over the Atlantic Ocean counted.

Ronan Stone poked his large head out of his end booth. “Where’s Rose?” he asked.

“She’s not feeling well,” Johnny said. “But don’t worry, she’ll still make an appearance.”

Ronan gasped. “And spread her germs all over us?”

“She’s going to make a virtual appearance,” Johnny said with a grin.

Ronan frowned. “And what about her infamous soda bread?” He wrinkled his nose, but Ronan wasn’t fooling anyone. Despite the rivalry between Ronan and Rose, he was mad for Rose’s Irish soda bread, and everyone knew it.

“I made the soda bread this year,” Johnny said. “Rose instructed me step-by-step.” Ronan groaned. “I swear,” Johnny said. “You won’t taste the difference.”

“We’ll see about that,” Ronan said before disappearing into his booth. He could still be heard moaning about it behind his blue velvet curtain.

“I’m going to make you try it,” Johnny said. “You won’t be disappointed!” Tara glanced at his tins of soda bread. Johnny was eyeing them like a proud papa. Everyone else was a tad worried, given that he hadn’t allowed anyone to sample the goods. Tara set her tray of shortbread down on the bake sale table and turned to survey her design work. She’d been up all night setting up the space.

“It looks fabulous,” she said. “If I do say so myself.”

Johnny muttered an agreement, but his focus was still on his soda bread. “Might even be better than Rose’s.”

“Bragging must be in the Meehan blood,” Ronan Stone yelled out from his booth.

Tara laughed. He wasn’t wrong. But Johnny was proud of his Irish soda bread, and she was proud of her design for the event. Booths were situated along the large open floor, decorated with symbols and signs, all announcing the psychic and his or her specific area of expertise. DEIRDRE PALMS: PALM READER had the sculpture of a palm above her booth, RONAN STONE: PSYCHIC MEDIUM had a painting of a crystal ball above his, SLOANE STARGAZER: ASTROLOGIST had a stunning photograph of the night sky littered with sparkling stars, PADDY POCKETS: OCCULT MAGICIAN had a painting of a rabbit popping out of a hat, and CIARA MOON: AURA READER had colorful neon bands around her booth, all representing the myriad of auras that could be seen.

Due to the lush blue velvet curtains, each of the five psychics had privacy, with plenty of room for people to line up in front and enough back access to come and go sight unseen. In the center of the space, a variety of pink, purple, and white crystals were piled high, displayed in an old birdbath sourced from an Irish garden.

Tara glanced at an old clock above the massive exterior doors. The gorgeous piece used to hang in a train station. They would be open to the public in one hour. A large sign was propped on an easel that would be front and center as folks entered:

Someone came up behind her, and she knew from the smell of his cologne it was Danny. They had been engaged for a few months, and she still felt butterflies whenever he was near. He began to read the sign aloud. “No nuts?” he said. “I think that ship has sailed.”

Tara laughed and gave him a playful shove as he tried to snag a piece of shortbread. “Charity,” she said. “I have a batch for you upstairs.”

He sighed and ran his hands through his sand-colored hair. He was tall and handsome, hazel eyes flecked with green, and Irish charm for days. A self-proclaimed bachelor, he’d shocked a lot of folks when he’d finally popped the question. They were going to get married on Paddy’s Day—one little week from now. Insane. “Jokes aside, what’s with the ‘no nuts’ comment?”

“Ronan Stone,” Tara said. “He’s deathly allergic.”

Just then, as if he sensed they were talking about him, Ronan Stone emerged from his booth, still holding a crystal ball. “There’s trouble ahead,” he said. “Does anyone else sense it?”

The side of his crystal ball had brown smudges. Tara wanted to point this out, but Ronan was known for being mercurial. She’d let someone else break the news. But it was disturbing. How could he see the future when he couldn’t even see that his crystal ball needed a good scrubbing?

“I’ve had a horrible feeling all morning meself,” Ciara Moon said, returning from the back room with a pair of black spectacles taking over her face. “Losing me spectacles was a bad omen.”

“Do you think they all know we’re getting married?” Danny whispered in her ear.

“Perhaps,” Tara said. “Shall we call the whole thing off?”

“If the crystal ball says we should . . . I say we smash it.” He kissed her neck.

“I’m starving,” Ronan said, apparently no longer worried about impending doom. “Is there not breakfast for the talent?”

“Wheel me to him,” a voice from somewhere in the mill said. It was Rose’s voice; there was no doubt about it. Tara turned to look for her, but instead of spotting her aunt, she saw Uncle Johnny. He was pulling a dolly that had an upright broom attached, and secured to the broom was an iPad. Rose’s image filled the screen. “You’re making me dizzy,” Rose said. “Can you not jerk me all over the place?”

“What in the actual . . .” Tara placed her finger on Danny’s lips before he could curse.

“I was wondering that myself,” she said. “Let’s find out what this is all about.” They hurried over to Johnny and Virtual-Rose. “Hi, Rose,” Tara said. “What’s the story?” Rose, a tiny woman with wavy black and gray-streaked hair down to her hips, looked larger on screen. Although Rose normally sported a heavily made-up face and a signature bright red rose tucked behind her left ear, today Tara could see the red around her aunt’s eyes and nose, her hair pulled behind her, and an understated black wrap. “I heard you weren’t feeling well,” Tara said.

“And now you can see it,” Rose sniffed.

“Can we ever,” Ronan Stone said, sneaking up from behind and shoving his large face close to the screen. Rose glared, and Ronan shrank back. “I’m only messing.” Ronan held up his hands as if he was being arrested.

“I’m truly sorry,” Tara said. Rose had been looking forward to this event all year.

“I’m going to try Johnny’s soda bread soon,” Ronan said. “I wonder if it’s better than yours.” He truly enjoyed riling her up.

Rose ignored him and addressed Johnny. “Did you put the crosses on top?” Some Irish used to believe that putting crosses on top of the soda bread helped keep the Devil out while baking, and poking the four corners let the fairies out. “That’s the blessing,” Rose continued. “Did you remember the blessing?”

“I did, so,” Johnny said. He threw a look to the table. Tara had seen his tins, and he had completely forgotten to put the crosses on top. And although it was traditionally a blessing, the crosses also helped the bread bake from the center out.

“Someone is lying,” Ronan said in a singsong voice. “But that’s okay. Rose, you’re already away with the fairies, and I already have a little of the Devil in me so what’s a little more?” He roared with laughter.

“Johnny!” Rose said. “You know that Irish soda bread is sacred!” Johnny glanced at Tara, who gave a slight smile. They both knew what was coming: a history lesson. Rose was hard-core about her soda bread, as were many others. There even existed an organization, the Society for the Preservation of Irish Soda Bread, formed by Ed O’Dwyer. The horror of the famine, which took a million Irish lives, gave rise to the popularity of Irish soda bread. It was quick and easy, and the ingredients were simple: flour, salt, bicarbonate of soda, and sour milk. These days the sour milk was replaced by buttermilk, and soda bread had a variety of forms: brown soda bread; griddle bread; golden soda bread; Railway Cake or Spotted Dog, which contained currants; scones—the list went on. But Rose was a stickler for traditional Irish soda bread, which dated back to the 1840s and contained only flour, bicarbonate of soda, salt, and buttermilk.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Johnny said. “I’ll put crosses on them now.”

“It’s too late now!” Rose said. “The cross helps in the baking process, you eejit.”

“I’m no good without you,” Johnny said, and Rose immediately softened. She gave a smile and a shrug. Johnny threw a look to Danny. “Live and learn.”

“This is an interesting arrangement,” Tara said, taking in the broom and dolly to which the iPad was attached.

Johnny grinned. “You like? I made me wife into a robot.”

“You’re pulling your wife on a leash,” Danny said. “Classic.”

“Have you done your affirmations yet this morning, Johnny?” Rose asked.

Johnny grinned and pumped his fist. “I’m a millionaire!”

“We,” Rose stressed.

“We’re millionaires!” He grinned yet again, then turned to Tara and Danny and rolled his eyes.

“What in the world?” Tara said.

“We’re manifesting,” Rose said. “We’ve been doing it for three months.”

“Nothing so far,” Johnny said.

“You have to imagine as if it’s already happened,” Rose said. “How many times do I have to remind you?”

“I’m a millionaire!” Johnny said. Rose fumed. “We! We, we, we! We are millionaires!” he added.

“Rose Meehan is dead, Rose Meehan is dead,” Ronan Stone chimed in. They all turned in horror to see Ronan Stone standing there grinning. “I’m manifesting too,” he said. He bent down to the iPad until he was eye to eye with Rose. “Still not working.”

“Hilarious,” Rose said. “Someone get that horrible man out of me face.” Ronan removed himself and trotted away to the bake sale table. “Pivot me,” Rose barked. “Pivot me!”

Johnny sighed and turned the contraption so Rose could see the booths with the names of the psychics with his or her specialty listed above them. She took them in with an appreciative nod. “Nice work, Tara.”

“Thank you,” Tara said. “But Johnny and Danny deserve equal credit.”

“Wheel me out of their earshot,” Rose said. Johnny obliged, taking his dolly and broomstick closer to the booths. Tara and Danny followed. Rose pointed at the first booth: DEIRDRE PALMS: PALM READER.

“Otherwise known as ‘Sweaty Palms,’ ” Rose said. She jerked her head to the next booth: CIARA MOON: AURA READER.

“The Dark Side,” Rose said. “Every time she reads someone, she insists their aura needs to be cleansed. It’s her mouth that could use a good soaping.”

“Pot, kettle,” Danny whispered.

“What did you say?” Rose barked.

“We’re thrilled for your insight,” Danny replied quickly.

They moved on: PADDY POCKETS: OCCULT MAGICIAN.

“He’s here?” Rose shook her head. “Watch him. He calls himself a magician when what he is a masterful pickpocket.”

“Next,” Tara said, hoping to move this along.

SLOANE STARGAZER: ASTROLOGIST.

“Star Glazer,” Rose said. “As in glazed-over. And not just her eyes. Her predictions are so generic. She’s sweet on Johnny too.”

“I can hear you,” Sloane said from behind her curtain.

“I can as well,” floated a voice from behind Deirdre’s curtain.

“Me too,” Ciara said. “My sight may be bad, but there’s nothing wrong with me hearing!”

“I take no offense,” Paddy Pockets chimed in last. “And she’s right. Watch your pockets!” He howled with laughter.

They all glanced at the last booth. RONAN STONE: PSYCHIC MEDIUM.

He needed no introduction, but Rose couldn’t help herself. “Bulldozer,” Rose said, shaking her head. “He tears people down, then bulldozes right over them with his dire predictions.”

Johnny sighed. “Only messing,” he shouted. “We love you all.”

Rose was not fazed. “Next year I’m getting better talent. We were so desperate this year, we had to scrape the bottom of the whiskey barrel.”

“Ungrateful wench,” Ronan called out. “Paddy, do you still make voodoo dolls?”

“Absolutely,” Paddy said. “But we’ll need a lock of her hair.”

“I’d happily rip it out meself,” Ronan said. “Even if it meant catching all her nasty, nasty germs.”

“If it isn’t Dave the Debunker,” Rose said. As requested, Johnny had propped Virtual-Rose by the entrance, then he’d scurried away, no doubt wanting a break from his demanding wife.

Dave glanced at the iPad. “Rose, darling,” he said. “You’re looking better than ever.”

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“What do you think?” he said. “I’m going to hover over the entire event and make sure that the public is not taken for a ride.” He glanced toward Ronan’s booth. “And support me bigger half, of course.” He laughed at his own joke.

“This is a charity event,” Rose said. “It’s all in good fun.”

“Don’t you worry, Rose,” Dave said. “Maybe I’m only here for Johnny’s Irish soda bread.”

“I hope it’s dry, and you choke on it,” Rose said. She really wasn’t pleasant when she was sick. But Dave didn’t seem put off.

“There’s that wicked tongue,” he said, waggling his finger at her with a grin.

Johnny popped up behind Dave. “You leave me wife’s tongue out of your mouth.”

Danny erupted in laughter. Tara couldn’t help but join him. Johnny stared at them, clueless.

“Tara! Have you tasted Johnny’s Irish soda bread?” Danny said, corralling them all over to the bake sale table.

Tara glanced at the neatly arranged tins. “Not yet.”

“Get it into you,” Rose said. “I need to make sure he’s not embarrassing me.”

Danny cocked his head. “I’d say it’s a bit too late for that.”

Tara stared at Uncle Johnny’s tin of Irish soda bread. “I’d hate to be the first to cut into it.”

“Allow me.” The male voice came from behind. Ronan stood holding a large, sharp knife, hovering over the table.

“Don’t you dare!” Rose said.

Ronan stabbed the knife into the soda bread, and then deftly cut a small slice. He plucked a napkin from the table, set the slice on top, and handed it to Tara.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Do try not to choke on it,” Ronan said. “I can see from here it’s terribly dry.”

Rose glared. As Johnny stared at her expectantly, Tara took a bite of the soda bread. Ronan was correct. It was dry. Irish soda bread was on the drier side compared to other breads, but this was next level. Had Ronan not warned her, she might not have bitten into it so carefully. Even with the small bite, she could feel it constricting her throat a tad.

“Well?” Johnny said.

She couldn’t lie. She wanted to spare his feelings, but she couldn’t lie. “It’s a tad dry,” she said.

“That is a grave disappointment,” Ronan said. “I suppose I shall be abstaining this year.” Even so, he stared at the tins of soda bread longingly. Paddy Pockets joined the group, huddling next to Ronan. The two of them bent heads together, no doubt exchanging wisecracks.

“I gave you clear instructions,” Rose said to Johnny. “How could you do this to me?”

“Maybe the other tins are fine,” Tara said.

“Maybe I can serve it with a glass of milk,” Johnny said.

“Or a gallon,” Tara replied.

“I’ll tell you what,” Ronan said. He clunked the knife down on the table and reached beneath his heavy cloak to pull out a crisp hundred-euro bill. “I’ll buy a few tins and use them as a paperweight.” He dropped the money into the donation jar, then stood staring at the collection as if trying to make up his mind.

“I see right through you,” Rose said. “You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

“If I can’t get it from this soda bread, it might as well be you,” Ronan said with a wink. “Here we are.” He scooped two tins from the table.

“We don’t have any change yet, Big Spender,” Johnny said.

Ronan waved his hand. “It’s for charity,” he said. “Keep it.”

Rose gasped. “You’re so tight you’ll probably build your own coffin!”

Ronan threw his head back and roared with laughter. “Rose, Rose, Rose. Not smelling so sweet today, are ya? But you’ve got enough cheek for a second arse.”

“I should kick you out of the psychic fair,” Rose said.

Ronan raised an eyebrow. “For being generous?”

“You? Generous?” Rose said. “Not a chance. What’s your real motive here?”

“This event would be nothing without me.” Ronan leaned in. “And yet it’s going to be a raving success without you.”

“Ha!” Rose said. “You couldn’t predict the rain even if you were drowning in it.”

“If that’s true, I’ll be glad for it,” Ronan said. “Because all morning I’ve seen death riding in on her high horse. Galloping, galloping, galloping.” He leaned down until he was eye to eye again with Rose. “Is she coming for you?”

“If anyone deserves death riding to snatch a reluctant rider, it’s you!” Rose was shouting now, and several heads turned their way.

Ronan touched Rose’s nose on the screen with his finger. “Boop.” With that he whirled around and headed for his booth, tins of Irish soda bread aloft.

“This is already a disaster,” Rose said. “Dry soda bread, me nemesis warning of death.”

“But we made a hundred euro for charity!” Johnny said.

“Now I’m glad you didn’t put a cross on it,” Rose said. “The Devil has met his match.”

It was nearly time to open the doors. “Thirty minutes until showtime,” Rose yelled from the screen. “Is everyone ready?” The past twenty minutes had been a whirlwind of activity, with the psychics each visiting each other’s booths to compare them to their own and pepper each other with strained compliments. Now they were nearly ready. That’s when the fire alarm blared. Tara covered her ears. Sloane Stargazer came running from the storage room.

“Dumpster fire!” she yelled. “Dumpster fire!”

“That’s what I said,” Ciara Moon pointed out.

“A real dumpster fire,” Sloane said. “Seriously! The back dumpster is on fire!”

“Everyone out,” Tara yelled. “Hurry.” Johnny was already on the phone to Emergency Services. Luckily most of the psychics emerged from their booths, and they headed for the exit. They gathered in the parking lot. Everyone was there but Ronan Stone, Danny, and Johnny. Moments later Danny and Johnny ran out, holding fire extinguishers. Johnny was also pulling Virtual-Rose behind them. He left the iPad with Tara and ran around back to the dumpsters.

“Where’s Ronan?” Dave the Debunker said, as if just now noticing his husband’s absence.

“Maybe he’s wearing earphones and didn’t hear the commotion,” Deirdre said.

Johnny and Danny emerged from behind the building. “The fire is out,” Johnny said. “It never reached the inside—we should be grand.”

“If it smells of smoke, we’re going to have to cancel,” Ciara said. “My sinuses won’t be able to handle it.”

“Then you can cancel,” Deirdre said. “Some of us need this job.”

They all stepped inside and inhaled. “I can’t smell a thing,” Johnny said. He surveyed the crowd. “Can any of ye?”

They shook their heads.

“Disaster averted,” Sloane said.

“Thanks to you,” Johnny pointed out. “But which one of you threw a lit cigarette into me dumpster?”

“Does anyone smell like smoke?” Dave said. He began sniffing. “Someone is wearing too much perfume!”

He was met with glares. “You have a distinct soapy smell,” Sloane said. “Maybe you’re the secret smoker.”

“I have a soapy smell? Meaning I showered and used soap?” Dave stood up straight. “I happen to shower regularly, and I’ve never smoked a day in me life.”

“I predicted this,” Ciara said. “Does anyone recall me yelling ‘dumpster fire’ this morning?”

“Maybe you set the fire,” Deirdre said. “Just to boost our opinion of your abilities.”

“Maybe Ronan started it,” Paddy said. “And that’s why he didn’t come out.” They all stopped arguing and stared at Ronan’s booth.

Dave headed for it. “Darling,” he said. “You missed all the drama.”

“There’s only five minutes until we open,” Rose said. “To your booths.” The remaining psychics hurried in. Just then the sounds of sirens approached.

“I thought you called them off,” Rose sai. . .