Murder at an Irish Bakery

Book 9: Irish Village Mystery

by Carlene O'Connor

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Mystery; Culinary Cozy Mysteries

Synopsis

The picturesque village of Kilbane in County Cork, Ireland, is the perfect backdrop for a baking contest—until someone serves up a show-stopping murder that only Garda Siobhan O’Sullivan can solve.
In Kilbane, opinions are plentiful and rarely in alignment. But there’s one thing everyone does agree on—the bakery in the old flour mill, just outside town, is the best in County Cork, well worth the short drive and the long lines. No wonder they’re about to be featured on a reality baking show.
All six contestants in the show are coming to Kilbane to participate, and the town is simmering with excitement. Aside from munching on free samples, the locals—including Siobhan—get a chance to appear in the opening shots. As for the competitors themselves, not all are as sweet as their
confections. There are shenanigans on the first day of filming that put everyone on edge, but that’s nothing compared to day two, when the first round ends and the top contestant is found face-down in her signature pie.
The producers decide to continue filming while Siobhan and her husband, Garda Macdara Flannery, sift through the suspects. Was this a case of rivalry turned lethal, or are their other motives hidden in the mix? And can they uncover the truth before another baker is eliminated—permanently …

Release date: February 21, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 304

Sample

“Stop the show. Sugar kills! Stop the show! Sugar kills!” The thirty-something outraged lad paced in front of Pie Pie Love, Kilbane’s best bakery housed in a historic flour mill. He was tall and handsome, if you ignored the vitriol pouring out of his gob. In addition to the passion he was bringing to the task, he seemed dressed for the part of a protester: denims, a T-shirt with the word SUGAR overlaid with a skull and crossbones, and a flannel shirt to protect against a mercurial spring. The limestone mill was set back in a vibrant field next to the Kilbane River. Unfortunately, no matter how loud the river babbled, the magnificent nine-meter cast-iron waterwheel mounted to the side of the building remained immobile, and the water simply meandered around it instead of powering it up. The mill was built between 1850 and 1870 and Garda Siobhán O’Sullivan had read somewhere that the original wheel had been wooden. Despite the switch to cast iron, it hadn’t churned for as long as Siobhán had been alive, nearly thirty years, and the bakery sourced its flour elsewhere.

Siobhán didn’t know the cost of repairing such a structure, but she knew—the waterwheel notwithstanding— that the family-owned mill was in dire need of basic repairs. The O’Farrells had operated this flour mill, and now bakery, for several generations. Fia O’Farrell was the last living member, and given she was single and past middle age, many wondered what she envisioned for its future. The back room, which used to house events, and the ground, middle, and top floors of the mill, which used to be open for tours, had all been closed to the public for over a decade. But it was still a gorgeous structure, and the bakery, which was housed in the very front portion of the building, was as cheerful inside as it was out. Siobhán took in the outdoor tables with colorful umbrellas, flowers beaming from planters along the front of the building, and the banner above the wooden doors that read: WELCOME IRISH BAKERS!

It was going to be a good day for Pie Pie Love, not to mention all of Kilbane, and Siobhán for one was ready for the festivities to begin.

“Join the health revolution. Sugar is not your friend!” the lad bellowed.

Neither is noise-pollution before coffee, Siobhán thought, but she kept her piehole shut. She needed to remain calm, which was why she was actively ignoring him while studying the gorgeous stone mill. Perhaps he would grow tired of screaming into the abyss. Why hadn’t he waited until the crowd was allowed in, or was he simply rehearsing for that very moment?

Garda Aretta Dabiri sidled up next to Siobhán, throwing a worried glance at the protester. “What are you staring at?” she asked. Aretta was the most recent addition to the Kilbane Gardaí. She was a petite woman with gorgeous dark skin, a calm presence, and a strong drive to excel. Her family was originally from Nigeria. She was the first female garda of African descent and a fantastic addition to the team. Siobhán’s brother Eoin had a little crush on her, and although Siobhán got the feeling it was mutual, the pair had yet to do anything other than wear out their smiles around each other. “You seem fascinated with the wheel,” Aretta remarked.

“This was always my favorite place to come as a young one,” Siobhán said. “Each time I asked my da if he could make the wheel turn.”

“Was he able to make it take a spin for ya?” The glint in Aretta’s eye showed she was only messing.

Siobhán laughed. “He would pretend to blow on it, and meself and James would try to blow on it, and then Da would scratch his head as if he were puzzled and say, ‘I thought for sure the pair of ye were filled with hot air.’” She laughed at the memory then shook her head. “It’s been stuck for ages.”

“Nice memories, but it’s a pity the wheel is stuck,” Aretta said.

Siobhán nodded. “Perhaps the proceeds from the baking show will change all of that.” Historic structures came with historic maintenance, which came with historic price tags. Siobhán often thought if she ever owned a gorgeous flour mill, the first thing she would do was get the wheel churning again. Siobhán turned to Aretta and grinned. “Because this week is not about wheels, this week is all about the meals.”

Aretta smiled. She had copped on. “The end of the meal, to be exact?”

“Bang on,” Siobhán said. “Dessert. The part that everyone savors for last.” Siobhán rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Aretta laughed and shook her head. Having a sugar addiction was not something that Garda Aretta Dabiri suffered from. Siobhán on the other hand was already drooling. Pies, biscuits, trifles, tarts, puddings, cookies, cakes, and breads. Oh my! This was shaping up to be the best work assignment of Siobhán’s life. And she and her giant sweet tooth intended on enjoying every minute of it. The top Irish bakers in all of Ireland would soon gather here for one week to show off their massive baking skills. Even the famous Aoife McBride had somehow been coaxed to compete. Siobhán’s late mam had owned every single cookbook written by Aoife McBride, starting with Aoife McBride Takes the Cake and she went on from there, also including: Pies, Tarts, Cookies, Puddings, and Breads. There were at least a dozen books in her baking empire. Aoife McBride had been a one-woman enterprise, going full steam. But a few months ago, after a freak-out during a Fan Club Appreciation Day, she’d gone quiet, and rumors swirled about her mental health. Given she lived all the way up in Donegal, the northernmost county in the west of Ireland, Siobhán was cautious to believe anything she’d heard. Gossip distorted as it traveled, everyone knew that.

Even so, the story was that Aoife McBride had unraveled when a fan group of look-alikes descended on Donegal a few months ago to pay her tribute. They dressed in her signature colorful aprons and wigs with thick black hair striped with white, padded their figures, and donned pink-rimmed eyeglasses. Instead of being flattered at the attention, it was said that Aoife McBride was driven mad. Apparently she’d accused one of them of stalking her, and for ages afterward no one had seen or heard from her. Her fans breathed a sigh of relief when this baking show enticed her back into the public eye. Siobhán was very much looking forward to meeting her, and if it wasn’t too much trouble, asking her to sign at least one of her mam’s books. Apparently, she was here to reveal her new memoir, Bake Me! as well as compete in the baking show.

Siobhán had no time to bake, apart from her famous brown bread. Perhaps this week would inspire her to do more. The bakery needed this, and the town needed this, and she needed this. Only Macdara Flannery, aka her husband, (husband!), would have enjoyed it more, but alas, work meetings had taken him to Dublin. It was impossible to believe that next month would be their one-year wedding anniversary.

“Stop the show. Sugar kills!”

The booming voice showed no signs of strain. “The lungs on him,” Siobhán said.

“He certainly can project his voice,” Aretta agreed.

The man brandished a stalk of celery like a weapon and stared at one spot on the building as if he was speaking to an invisible camera. Somewhere there was a cameraman around as well as a director, but Siobhán had yet to meet them.

The door to the bakery opened and Fia O’Farrell emerged without so much as a donut in hand. She was a petite woman with gorgeous silver hair wound up in a tight bun. She wore a cheerful pink top and a cream-colored apron that read: ALL YOU NEED IS LOVE. Love was crossed out and above it read: DOUGH.

She put her hands on her hips and glared at the protester. “You’re not supposed to be here. If you don’t leave, the guards are going to arrest you.” She pointed to Siobhán and Aretta as if their blue suits and navy-blue caps with the gold shield had not sufficiently identified them as members of An Garda Síochaná. The Guardians of the Peace. There was little peace to be found at the moment. Siobhán would have preferred the assignment in plainclothes, but it was eejits like the one in front of them that made that request impossible.

“Do take a rest,” Siobhán said to the man. “You’ll wear your voice out before your audience arrives.”

The comment gave him pause. Perhaps he was capable of listening to reason.

“A rest?” Fia hissed. “Are you joking me?” She planted her hands on her slim hips. “I want him off me property.”

“Where is the director and cameraman?” Siobhán asked. It was a two-person crew which seemed awfully small for a week-long production, but the baking show was being independently financed by an anonymous benefactor and perhaps a larger crew wasn’t in the budget.

“Unloading their equipment,” Fia said with a nod to the car park in the back of the building. It would soon be jammers, and attendants would be on hand to direct cars to park in the field. The venue could hold a hundred persons in the front section of the bakery, with another hundred outside. The show would be streamed onto screens on the side of the building as well as the interior, and heat lamps had been set up outdoors for those stuck outside when the sun went down. And of course, workers would circulate amongst both crowds with pastries available for purchase, not to mention samples from the guest bakers.

Samples! Siobhán, who had been looking forward to this sweet, sweet assignment for ages, literally hearing eggs crack in her sleep, and dreaming of flour sifting through her hands, was put on her back foot by the protester. She heard a mechanical squeak and whirled around to see him holding a bullhorn. “Sugar kills,” he blasted out.

Brutal. Siobhán approached. “Enough. You are disturbing the peace.”

“There’s no peace in diabetes, now is there?” he replied.

“Everything in moderation,” Siobhán said. “Including your temper tantrum.”

His eyes narrowed into slits as he dropped the bullhorn to his side. “It’s my right to protest.”

“Then quietly carry a sign, will ya? Whisper your message to the world.”

He frowned as if trying to suss out whether or not she was messing with him. “I don’t have a sign.”

“Now. There’s your trouble. You can’t pull off a good protest without a sign, now can you? That would be like me coming to work without me handcuffs, pepper spray, and baton.” Siobhán smiled, patted the large stick attached to her side, and touched her cuffs and spray on the other side. He took a step back. “Perhaps you should go make one.”

He frowned, still staring at her hips. “A stick?”

“A sign.”

“Right, so.”

She jingled her handcuffs. “That’ll show us you mean business.”

He crossed his arms and looked away. “You’re just trying to chuck me out.”

“If you think you can compete with the smells and sounds of a bakery without a colorful sign . . .” Siobhán stopped talking and shook her head. “Amateur.”

His mouth dropped open and he began looking around, as if contemplating his next move. To Siobhán’s great shock, he began to stride away, taking his bullhorn with him. Before she could completely relax, he lifted it to his mouth once more. “I’ll be back with me sign.”

Not if she could do anything about it. As she watched him skulk away Siobhán waited for the tension in her body to ease, but she remained on high alert. “Thank heavens,” Fia said. “Brilliant, Garda. C’mere to me. Whatever you did there, I applaud you.”

“I don’t think we’ve seen the last of him,” Siobhán admitted. She needed caffeine and sugar, stat. She’d forgone her morning brekkie, convinced there would be coffee and delectables provided as soon as she arrived. Her husband (husband!) liked to joke that no one should ever let Siobhán O’Sullivan get hangry. “That’s why your initials are SOS,” Macdara often said. “When Siobhán O’Sullivan needs to eat it’s an SOS!” Technically, they were Siobhán and Macdara O’Sullivan-Flannery now, but not at work. At work she would continue to go by O’Sullivan. And amongst her family and friends. No use getting them all confused when she’d been O’Sullivan for thirty years, now was there? And didn’t Siobhán O’Sullivan sound so much nicer than Siobhán Flannery? And despite being on the fence about the name, at least she loved the husband. Thinking about Macdara made her wish he was here; he would have been just as eager for pastries as she was.

Siobhán leaned closer to Aretta. “She’s going to offer us pastries soon, isn’t she?”

“Sugar kills,” Aretta said deadpan.

“Then kill me,” Siobhán said. “Kill me right now.” It was true that she was a bit bullish without brekkie. Or lunch. Or supper. Snacks and dessert were always helpful for the mood as well. But with Macdara out of town, and without his gentle nudging, she’d decided to skip it this morning and save room for dessert. At five-nine and a somewhat-regular jogger, so far Siobhán had managed to keep her temptations from taking over her figure. And when she was embroiled in a case, she ran around enough during the day to fight the bulge. If anything, watching Macdara’s bottomless appetite gave her pause. He somehow managed to stay fit despite eating a lot more than she did. Typical.

“How is married life?” Aretta asked. Either she was trying to be polite or distract Siobhán from her cravings. Either way, Siobhán was grateful to get her mind on something other than out-of-reach caramel-coated brownies and strong coffee.

“Brilliant,” Siobhán said with a grin. Shortly after they were married, everyone warned them that matrimony would change everything. Every morning Siobhán woke early just to prop herself up on a pillow and stare at her gently snoring husband, wondering if today would be the day that everything would change, resisting the urge to lean over and pinch his cheek, or wind a strand of his wavy hair around her finger. Once assured that he looked like the same man she’d always known—her tall, messy-haired, blue-eyed love—she would rise and dress for her morning run, eager to get back to her new home and make herself a cappuccino.

Her prized cappuccino machine was one of the remnants she’d brought from their former bistro to her farmhouse. Although it took up precious counter space in the kitchen, she wouldn’t dream of letting it go. The whirring sounds it made gave her comfort, and the cappuccinos were divine. Macdara more often than not drank tea in the morning, but he seemed to enjoy her love affair with the machine. Sometimes she took her steaming mug in hand and climbed the hill behind their house to watch the sunrise through the trees.

Macdara, not what you would call a morning person, joined her up there for sunsets. They were undeniably still in the honeymoon phase, and the first year had not been as troublesome as they’d been warned. Granted, sometimes she did shriek when his ice-cold toes tried to touch hers in the morning, and he was a mad one for leaving wet towels in a heap on the floor, but they were nothing a good scolding couldn’t sort out. Siobhán did not know how long a honeymoon phase lasted, but she intended on enjoying every second of it. She didn’t dare wear her gorgeous emerald-and-diamond engagement ring, but she did find herself staring at her gold wedding band several times a day and marveling that she was a married woman.

“How did our protester get past the locked gate?” Aretta said, bringing Siobhán back to the present.

And how had he disappeared so quickly? She’d lost track of him across the field, and now he was gone. For a stranger he seemed to know his way in and out. “Where there’s a will there’s a way,” Siobhán replied, scanning the grounds. The property was surrounded by a limestone wall, and the entrance and back exit were currently secured with gates. She supposed he could have climbed over the wall along the far perimeter and traipsed across the field. That meant he came on foot, or parked his car somewhere illegally, for the bakery was in no-man’s-land between Kilbane and Charlesville. Both towns liked to claim it as their own, although technically it was within Kilbane’s borders.

“A point could be made that sugar kills,” Aretta said. “Diabetes, weight gain, heart health—”

“Please,” Siobhán groaned. “It’s way too early to debase pastries.” Perhaps it was due to her rebellious nature, but the more anyone railed against sugar, the more she wanted it. Given Aretta was a very healthy eater, Siobhán knew to tread lightly. And despite the accusations the lad was screaming across the field, it wasn’t as if the bakery was forcing sweets down anyone’s gob; on the contrary, folks had to drive a ways out of town to even get to it. And most folks agreed that the drive, and even the long lines, were well worth it.

“Poison here, get your poison here!” Siobhán jumped at the sound of the familiar voice amplified by the bullhorn. The protester was back. He had changed into a white shirt. The word POISON was splashed across it in red paint with an arrow pointing off to the left.

“How’s this for a sign?” he said, jabbing at his shirt when he caught Siobhán’s eye.

“That is something,” she said. Would it rile him up even more if she pointed out that the arrow was pointing to the left but the bakery was on his right?

“You let him come back?” Fia said, sneaking up from behind. “How could you let him come back?”

What exactly did Fia expect them to do? Wrestle him to the ground? Force an eclair into him as punishment? Yes, he was technically disturbing the peace, but all of Kilbane had been invited to the filming. Siobhán could hardly throw him out and allow the others to remain. And given his heightened state of agitation, she certainly didn’t think hauling him off by his ear would help anyone. It would be a much better outcome if they helped him calm down and escorted him off the property.

“Sir,” Siobhán said, stepping up and raising her voice. “We have not opened the gates to the public yet, and once again you are disturbing the peace.”

“Me?” he said, jabbing himself in the chest with his finger. “I’m disturbing the peace? How many people have I killed?”

“I have no idea,” Siobhán said. “But if you’re confessing to a murder, I’d be happy to escort you to the Kilbane Garda Station.”

“Sugar. Kills,” he said.

“Technically, nearly everything can kill,” Aretta said, stepping forward. “Even water.” She glanced back at Siobhán and Fia, both openmouthed, then shrugged as she turned back to the man. “Everything in moderation.”

“Ever heard of celery killing anyone?” the man shouted as he removed another stalk from the pockets of his trousers and wagged it at them.

“If anyone needs a cupcake, it’s him,” Fia said with a sigh.

“I’ve got one,” the man shouted. They whipped their heads back to him, and sure enough he produced a giant cupcake with purple frosting. He drew his hand back as if he intended on lobbing it directly at Siobhán. Part of her wondered if he could get it directly in her mouth.

“If you throw that at me, I can arrest you for assault,” Siobhán said. “If I were you, I would stop and think very carefully about what you’re going to do next.”

As if drawn out by the drama, the cameraman and director materialized. The cameraman filmed while a woman dressed all in black stood nearby, grasping a clipboard and watching the scene unfold. She had intense eyes accentuated by black-rimmed glasses. Given the attire and props, Siobhán assumed she must be the director. She had short spiky magenta hair streaked with green, a bold move for a woman in her sixties. Siobhán could not yet see the cameraman’s face; it was hidden behind his bulky recorder.

“Stop filming, Charlie,” Fia said. “You’re giving him the attention he craves.” Charlie did not stop filming.

The protester crushed the cupcake in his fist with a wounded cry. Siobhán resisted the urge to rescue it from him. Surely, there were more where that came from.

Siobhán approached the man slowly, holding her hand up to the camera. “Give us a minute,” she said. Charlie lowered his equipment, revealing a handsome face topped by thick brown curls, and a poor attempt at a beard. The lad was somewhere in his thirties.

“Keep filming,” the director said, waving her arms wildly. She swiveled to Fia. “We were told we could film everything.”

Fia sighed, then shrugged and walked off. Siobhán resisted the urge to fight the director on this point, because much like Siobhán, she was only doing her job. Drama might be bad for the guards but it was good for telly.

“I’m Garda O’Sullivan,” Siobhán said, stepping as close to the protester as she dared. “What’s your name?”

The man’s jaw was clenched tightly. He barely glanced at her. “Are you going to shut this nonsense down?” he said. “Or are you going to allow them to peddle poison?” His eyes darted to and fro, as if expecting an ambush from either side at any moment.

“Your voice has been heard,” Siobhán said. In the distance, a pair of cows had stopped chewing their cud to stop and listen. “But if you keep at it, you’re going to lose your authority and your audience.”

He shifted his weight and glanced around. “What do you mean?” He jabbed his thumb at his shirt. “I made a sign just like you said.”

“You’re raving like a madman. If your goal is to encourage everyone to eat healthy, you’re not accomplishing it.”

He opened his hand, revealing the crushed cupcake, then flipped his palm down, allowing icing and crumbs to rain onto the ground. Lucky birds, Siobhán thought, resisting the urge to dive-bomb the ground. Why hadn’t he just peacefully surrendered the cupcake to her? “Look at this mess,” he said. He took a bite of the celery and continued to talk. “Sugar is poison. It’s pure poison.” He pointed his finger at the mill. “And bakers are drug pushers,” he said. “Plain and simple, they’re drug dealers. And they deserve what they’re going to get.” A grin spread across his face, and a gleam came into his eyes, and all the little hairs on the back of Siobhán’s neck stood at attention.

“What does that mean?” Siobhán said, straightening her spine. “What are they going to get?” She had one hand on her baton and the other ready to grab her pepper spray. When she woke up this morning she never imagined needing backup at the bakery. Aretta stepped up by her side, placing her hand on her baton in solidarity. “Where you from yourself?” Siobhán once more attempted to appeal to him on a personal level.

It was obvious he heard her but he didn’t answer. From his accent she would guess he was from a northern county. Had he followed Aoife here from Donegal? Like the cameraman he was a thirty-something lad, well-dressed, and when he wasn’t shouting, even handsome, but clearly unhinged. “What is your name?” she asked again.

“I’ll talk if you stop this production.” He crossed his arms and smirked.

Siobhán shook her head. “I don’t have the power to do that.”

“Money,” he said. “Greed.”

She wanted to point out that they were beyond fortunate to have the best bakers in all of Ireland right here, competing, creating delectables right in front of their faces,. . .